The Tragedy of Agnes
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: Saladin's aide, Kashif Ahmed bin Suleiman, is captured on Crusade and taken back to England, where he is forced to serve his sadistic captor, Rand Tindal, as a mercenary in his land acquisitions. In the process, he spends the night with a frightened young English girl, a brief love that will turn into tragedy.


**The Tragedy of Agnes**

Kashif lay awake that night, thinking back on his "sin."

Yes, he remembered the girl...the one Tindal wanted despoiled, in that grand house he had taken. Her uncle Lord Duvall was a stalwart man, and he would not be coaxed away by bribes nor scared away by threats. He was loyal to his king, the Lionheart, and that was enough reason for Prince John to want his house beaten down. So Tindal would do the dirty work for him, cut down his sons, disgrace his women, and drag Duvall's rich holdings under his name.

But Kashif hated it, hated what he saw in front of him in that room. She was afraid, so very afraid, so much like the girl he'd seen ravaged in the wars…so helpless, so desperate, quivering in the corner of the at the sight of him. Seeing her in such a state, and knowing what he had been commanded to do, a feeling overcame him that gave him the powerful desire to bathe, to never stop scrubbing the filth away...

"Please...leave me alone," she pleaded, wrapping her arms around her knees. "Don't hurt me…I don't want you to hurt me…"

"I don't want to hurt you either," he mumbled. Then added more quietly, in a tone of guilt, "It…doesn't have to hurt."

"What-what are you going to do to me?" Panic pricked in her eyes, like a gazelle being stalked by a lion in the desert.

Indeed she seemed like a gazelle to him. Lovely and graceful, as innocent and fragile as the deer he once hunted. And trapped. Yes…there was no escape for her.

"I've been commanded to take your maidenhead," he informed her bluntly. Perhaps it was a mistake. But it had to be better than leading her on, only to spring upon her after promising her otherwise.

"You lie!" she shrieked. "You're not commanded to do anything! You're a Saracen. Your false prophet gave you the right to despoil Christian women…"

"You're the one lying now!" he shot back, incensed. "Our prophet, peace be upon him, was the best and most generous of men. I was not raised to harm any woman or innocent. Such a thing is a crime in the eyes of Allah. It is revealed to us in our holy book to never hurt innocents."

"You can't tell me it doesn't happen," she retorted. "I've heard too many stories."

"I didn't say it _never_ happens," he conceded, a twist of shame in his chest. "Men at arms can turn ugly, no matter on what side they fight. Your knights are no better with our women. I've seen the work they can do. But regardless...I am not here to speak for the behavior of your soldiers or mine. I am not here by choice. If you don't want a Saracen to defile you, maybe Tindal will do it, but he will not let you leave here a virgin, nor me unscathed if I will not."

She blinked. "What do you mean unscathed?"

"My master does not hesitate to inflict pain on those in his power," he stated grimly. "If I do not act upon you, he or one of his men will."

"God will protect me. He wouldn't let this happen…" She wrung her hands. "I pray to Him every night. I pray to Christ and the saints. Oh, God in heaven...please protect me!" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Kashif sat down upon the bed with a sigh, his shoulders rounded out, his back curved. He covered his face with his hands. Is this what God had decreed upon him? Is this what his life was now? Torturing a girl like some savage animal?

_Allah. Grant her prayers. Strike me down it You must. I don't want to come to any woman like this. No one deserves this…_

Then another horrific thought assaulted him.

_Did this happen to Ayesha before they burned her?_

The girl studied him, sat up a little up higher against the wall. "Are-are you praying?"

Kashif remained silent, continuing to hide his face. He did not know what else to do, or who else to turn to. Who could help him but God?

"You're…afraid, aren't you?" She tilted her head in confusion. "I don't understand...even Lord Tindal's men walked in fear of you. I saw you fight in the courtyard. You're terrifying. Why would you be afraid now?"

"Because I'm cursed," he spat, and felt his own body start to shake. "Abandoned."

She was looking at him with pity now. Ya Allah. Even maidens looked down upon him. His own victims felt sorry for him…

Then she did something he did not expect. Slowly, she came towards him and sat down on the bed as well.

"An evil man doesn't feel despair upon being told to sin," she remarked softly. "Only one with a heart feels it."

He turned and looked her in the eyes. They were gray, so uncommon in his homeland, so unlike his wives and family members. Yet they were strangely beautiful to him all the same.

She seemed to sense his attention and turned her face away uncomfortably.

"I'm just a man," he mumbled. "Like any other man. I have good and evil within me. I have desire and I have shame. Forgive my gaze."

She continued to look away from him. Many moments passed as they sat silently alongside each other. He did not know what to do next.

"Perhaps...you can push me out the window," he suggested, half-joking at the absurdity of it all. It was so absurd it hurt. "Then it would not be suicide in the eyes of my God, and you will not be defiled. Everyone would be better off…"

"You can't mean that!" she yelped.

Kashif laughed bitterly, then grew solemn. "Do you have any better ideas, short of going to hell over this?" He paused, then added, "It's a sin in my religion too, you know."

She moved closer to him and started to reach her hand towards his shoulder, as if to comfort him, but seemed to lose her nerve and pulled her hand back.

"You can touch me, if you'd like," he offered softly. "I won't attack you."

Gently, she brushed her fingers along his shoulder, than his chest, then finally touched his face with trembling hands. She bit her lip, as if frightened by her own inexperience.

"It's alright," he murmured. "It...feels nice. It's been so long since someone touched me and not...tried to hurt me."

She let her gaze drift down awkwardly. "God is just. Surely He would not punish us for something we never wanted to do." She swallowed hard, looked up again. "Should I... take off your shirt?"

His eyes widened momentarily, then he nodded, unable to form words.

She moved behind him, clumsily starting to remove his shirt, her hands fumbling as she did so. Even while submitting to her fate, the fear was still palpable in her touch. And it burned Kashif to the core.

She gasped at the site of his back, the signs of the lash imbedded deep upon him. "What happened to you? Who did this to you?"

"Tindal," he shrugged.

She began to shake in renewed terror. He could imagine it, he could see the comprehension dawning upon her, what Tindal was capable of, and might fate might have in store for both of them as his captives. Then something else happened, that expression on her face he did not want to see. Pity. She was pitying him again.

She rested her hand upon one of his scars. He turned around and took her hand in his, her head leaning against his chest as she trembled. Her golden hair seemed so different from the hair of his people, of the woman he had lain with before. Yet it felt no different. She was not some strange creature, but just like the women of his household. Soft, warm, even familiar somehow.

As he finally started to relax, instinct overtook him. Not the primal instinct he felt when he touched Yasmine in his youth. No, this instinct came from his heart. He thought of Reema as he touched this woman. They were so alike in purity. He dared to hope this girl in front of him could perhaps sate the sadness within him.

He started to lean her back against the bed, but her body tightened in terror. She thrust up her hand automatically, keeping him at an arm's length away from her.

It was then a moment of shame filled his heart once again, from a memory of the world he had come from. He remembered the Ethiopian slave girl. He didn't even remember her name, yet he remembered how he ordered her to bed in his urgency to sire a child. He remembered her fear, her lack of agency in it all. It was only after it was done that he realized the error in it, and the wisdom of his wife in counseling him against it. It had not been brutal, but it had been cold and loveless. The act lacked all heart and compassion. Perhaps that itself was a brutality.

_Never again. He never wanted to do it again. But what choice did he have now?_

"Please," he rasped. "Trust me...I'll be gentle…"

"But I've never done this," she whimpered.

"You don't have to do anything," he assured. "Just let me guide you."

"But you're so much bigger than me," she whimpered. "Y-you could…br-break me…"

"I'll be careful," he promised, slowly starting to stroke her hair, down her face, to her neck. She shivered, adjusting to the sensation. He started to open the front of her dress. She turned red, and instinctively used her hands to cover herself once more. So he kept stroking her hair and neck until her skin grew warm and she slowly uncrossed her arms. She looked so confused it made his guilt increase, but he still decided to begin exploring her body further with his hands, pulling the dress further open. He heard a click in her throat, but her breathing was starting to fall into pace with his petting. He ran his hands down over her breasts and belly, down towards her thighs.

"You're very desirable," he said, hoping she'd take it as a compliment, but it seemed to put a new spark of fear in her eyes. "I mean…you're lovely," he tried again. "Your eyes are like clouds, your hair like the sun, and your skin…it is fair, and soft, like fleece to the touch…"

"Uncle always said I was plain, like his sister," she mumbled. Then she looked up at him pleadingly. "When you're done…you'll let me go back to my family, won't you? I-I want to see my family…" Tears were filling her eyes again.

"Yes, yes, you can go to your uncle very soon," he assured, trying to keep his tone from revealing what had befallen her cousins at his hands. "As soon as this is done, I'm sure you'll be released. Tindal just wants to break you. But you don't have to break from this…"

She blinked as he started to massage her thighs, and for the first time, a funny whimpering sound escaped her throat. "I feel…strange…"

"It's natural," he assured.

He started to lower his body down onto hers, their chests touching. He felt her shaking body, warm against his. Her gaze flitted to the broadness of his chest, the muscles in his arms.

"I'm not going to crush you," he sighed.

He put his arm against her back and pulled her close. He felt her tense at first, as if afraid he would lose control and break her bones. He just kept stroking her, and started to kiss her neck. He felt her heart pounding, her breathing panting, her reactions causing his blood to run quick. He felt her hand wrap around his back, their bodies brushing each other. He could feel her body naturally prepare for what was to come. All the signs were there.

She winced as he lowered his lips upon her own.

"It's…prickly," she muttered.

"Never kissed a bearded man before?"

"I never kissed any man before," she confessed meekly.

Again, he felt a pang of remorse, but responded quietly, "Where I come from, the woman wouldn't have a man without at least some beard…otherwise he's not really a man."

"It still…feels prickly," she maintained.

He chuckled softly, then tried again to meet her mouth, guiding her face to him with his hand. It was an awkward kiss at first, but it deepened, intensified. Soon he moved his mouth down to her breasts. Soon her legs instinctively opened just a little. He moved his hands down and opened her legs further. "Hold onto me," he instructed. "It's going to hurt at first, but if you relax, it can be pleasurable. I will be gentle."

She did scream into his chest when he first entered her, but then seemed lost between mixed sensations. Kashif himself was lost within her moist warmth, and the rapture of intimacy he had gone so long without.

When it was over she nestled her head against his chest in exhaustion, and he felt overcome with a feeling of intense bonding towards her. She was his now, part of his own flesh, that every tear and sigh and moan from her riveted his heart. He just cradled her in his arms and massaged her back, her shoulders.

"I-I could make you my wife…erase the shame from you, as soon as I'm free…" he stammered. "I could take you back home with me…I take good care of my wives…"

She gasped. "You...you're married?"

"Yes, but where I come from, a man may have up to four."

"Bu that's adultery," she blurted. "I've committed adultery…"

"By Christian laws, perhaps, but in my land, you'd not be under them."

"But I'm Christian," she blurted, pressing her knuckles to her teeth.

"You don't have to stay that way," he countered. "They'll ridicule and shame you here. If you embraced Islam, and married me, everything would be proper, and you'd be free from scandal…" He sat up a little, started to help her pull up her dress. "You know, we agree with a lot of things your scriptures. You wouldn't have to give up everything, just…some things."

"Like Christ," she mumbled, "and the Virgin, and the saints, and…and everything that saves our souls, that gets us to Heaven…"

"We believe he's a prophet," Kashif countered.

"But not the Son of God," she retorted. "Without Christ there is no salvation…"

He looked down. "So you think I'm a damned then?"

She stared at him, and there was horror on her face, seeming to run through her mind if she'd lain with a demon. Then a tear ran down her face. "You…you didn't hurt me…you could become Christian," she said hopefully. "You could marry me as a proper Christian man…"

"No, I love my religion as much you love yours," he responded, and then realized that he admired her conviction because it mirrored his own, and that made her all the more beautiful in his eyes. A sadness and confusion filled his heart.

"What if...I have a baby?" she queried.

His heart thumped in his chest. Somehow he had not given it any thought. He could imagine what the life of such a child would entail, derided as a cursed half-breed, a dark-featured demon-baby. People, no matter where they were from, did not like what was different from them.

"There has to be a way for this to be lawful," he stated with determination. "Surely there is some precedent in your faith and mine for diplomatic marriages. I am of noble blood and so are you..."

"But are you not married?"

"My city was raided. I do not know if there were any survivors."

And with that statement, a horrible, terrible fear overcame Kashif. He hated himself for saying it out loud, lest it be true. Lest he truly had lost everything.

He looked upon the girl in front of him. Could she truly be all he had left? And if that were true, how could he let her go so easily? She seemed to be such a kind girl, even if she was an infidel. He had a hard time imagining her suffering in eternal hellfire. There was a future in front of him here, now. There had to be a way...

"My uncle said people in the past got married to make peace," she recalled. "Perhaps we can marry someday and stop the Crusade."

Kashif stifled his laugh at her innocent belief something so big and ugly could be fixed by a simple union. Yet this ignorance endeared her to him all the more.

"What do want for your wedding?" he asked playfully. There was a hint of seriousness in his voice. Future. He had a future. Right in front of him right now.

"I don't know. I just want a feast and a long pretty veil. And I want my uncle and cousins to be there."

Kashif's smile vanished. A sensation of sickness filled his belly.

"We should sleep now," he told her gravely. "We'll talk more about it tomorrow."

He awoke in the morning with her curled up asleep beside him, acutely aware of her warmth and smell. Her arms were around him.

_It could have been so much worse than this. It could have been a sin God could never forgive. But it wasn't. I may have found salvation. I can make this right. I can find happiness. I don't even know her name. Yet she means so much to me already..._

Kashif brushed a strand of hair away from her face, and her eyes fluttered open.

"Do husbands do this sort of thing with their wives?" the girl asked, stretching and yawning.

"Perhaps," he offered with a soft smile, happy he was fulfilling her fantasy of marital bliss, even in a sordid situation like this. "Can I ask you...what's your name?"

"Agnes. My parents named me after our virgin martyrs, in the early church." Her eyes drifted down. "She wanted to dedicate her life to God, and spurned her pagan suitors, so they reported her to the authorities in Rome. They tried to make her offer incense to idols, but she wouldn't, and they took her to a house of ill repute to despoil her. But the man who tried to touch her was struck blind. But you know what she did?"

"No," he mumbled lowly, uncomfortably.

"She prayed for him to have his sight restored. She forgave him, and even those who killed her in the end."

He looked down. "I'm afraid most people who pray for miracles like that don't get them."

"But she forgave," Agnes reiterated. "That was the greatest miracle of all."

He shrugged. "Well, now it's my turn for introductions. I am Kashif Ahmed bin Suleiman. And I think your name is very pretty."

"Your name is very long."

He chuckled, then fell quiet. "If we did have a child...if it looked like me. With brown skin and dark eyes. Could you ever love such a child?"

"Why wouldn't I? It would be my child too."

_I must make her a part of me forever. Such a blessing among such hardship put upon me. Perhaps she is a gift from Allah to make this all bearable._

The two of them got up from the bed, chatting nervously as they helped each other get dressed. He felt like a young boy again, when he first talked to a girl, full of shyness and reserve.

_When did I start caring what other people thought of me?_

Yet he could not deny he did care what she thought. He cared a great deal.

She pestered him with questions that would ordinarily have irritated him upon how exotic she seemed to think everything was about his old world. But she seemed so genuinely interested in him that he answered everything freely.

"You know, sometimes I miss the sound of church bells and Arabic choir singing from my homeland. I always found it as exotic to me as I must seem to you."

"Do you Mohammadens sing like we do?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"Perhaps one day you can show me…when we are married."

_Does she desire my wife to be dead? Do I want this? _Kashif's thoughts went back to Reema, and feeling of foreboding and fear consumed him. No. He could not bear it. It was bad enough with Noor. When he'd first received the news of her passing, he bottled it up inside, pretended it did not hurt him, lest he seem weak. He needed to be strong for his men; he needed to live for his family. But he quickly realized it would be worse with Reema. Noor was a flower, beautiful to look at but lacking deep roots. Reema was like the tree he often rested upon in his youth. He had been fond of the tree, but gave it little thought. Yet when his father cut the tree down, he mourned it for days.

"Is something wrong, Kashif?" said Agnes softly.

And just like that, he distracted himself once more with another flower, this one so different from anything else. Yes. He would not think of Reema. He would not think of marriage or children with Agnes. He would simply live in this moment, with this kind and gentle soul.

"It's nothing," he dismissed. "I was just thinking...of my family."

"Do you have any siblings? I don't. My parents died when I was little."

"I have many brothers and sisters. Mostly sisters."

"Is there anyone you remember most fondly?"

"My youngest sister Ayesha," he replied Kashif, unable to keep his voice perfectly steady, try as he might.

"You're sad. Why?"

"She was killed by your crusaders."

Agnes paused for a moment, taking his hand into her own. She looked up at him with those strange, tender gray eyes.

"If my cousins were killed I would be sad too," she sympathized. "Edwin and Jonathan used to bring me dolls when I was little, and used to show off when I watched them in the courtyard practicing. They used to wrap my scarves around their swords as if I were a maiden whose favor they wanted to win."

Kashif felt his throat tighten, his body grew stiff. "Let's...take a walk," he mumbled, standing up and extending his hand to her. "Face the world."

The two of them meandered down the halls, still hand-in-hand. Kashif tended towards a solemn silence as Agnes continued to chat away about her family and home. She spoke of her uncle, how he'd raised her like a father, and how much he had grieved since the death of his wife, her Aunt Beatrice, and how he had grown more protective over her as the only woman left under his care. She spoke of a Saxon servant she used to get along with well, how he'd taught her to garden in the spring months, and she wondered where he was now.

Kashif knew, but could not bear to tell her. He had fought to defend his master, been cut down by the door of his hall. It was horrible, the way he was hacked up by Tindal's henchmen. Kindal knew he should be grateful to them for finishing him off before an official execution could be ordered; at least this blood was not on his sword. It had grown red enough as it was at Tindal's behest, and Kashif was almost ashamed to look at his own blade anymore. He knew these people did not deserve to die, but die they did, pawns in some grand political chess board to fulfill Tindal's own designs.

_Speaking of the devil_.

"What is this?" queried Tindel in astonishment, gazing upon Agnes hiding behind the Saracen.

"I did as ordered," said Kashif bluntly.

"Yes. But...not as I had thought." Tindal smiled wryly. "Perhaps what they say about you Saracens abilities in bed are true." Tindal turned to walk away, then halted for a moment, a twisted smile upon his face. "Wait here. Follow me when I return."

Agnes watched Tindal move down the hall, clutching Kashif's arm tightly. "You-you won't let him hurt me, will you? He's scary...I don't like him."

_I can't even protect myself from him._

"I won't let him touch you," Kashif assured firmly. It was the least he could do for her.

They sat down together on a bench in the corridor, and she surprised him by nuzzling her head against her shoulder. She clearly had lost all sense of shame with him, like a new bride, like Noor, and it made him uncomfortable even as he tried so hard to set aside his shame for her sake.

Before long, Tindal returned with a three soldiers following him. It made Kashif wary.

"Come with me. Both of you," beckoned his master.

The two slowly followed Tindal up a set of stairs, leading to another hallway. Kashif recognized it. This was where her uncle and his sons used to have their chambers.

"You. Agnes, isn't it? Go see your uncle." Tindal pointed toward the room at the end of the hall. Kashif and the soldiers followed, until Tindal stopped them. "You all wait outside."

Agnes glanced at Tindal questioningly. "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, your Uncle was just worried about you. Go see him."

Agnes did as she was told, shutting the door.

Kashif watched as Tindal strolled away down the hall, whistling to himself a disturbingly cheerful tune. A strange foreboding feeling filled his chest, and he craned his neck to listen at the door. All he heard was murmuring at first. Then their tones started to rise.

"You took to bed the monster that murdered my sons! How could you do this to us? After what he did?!"

"No! I don't believe it. He couldn't have done that. He couldn't! He's gentle!"

"Shut your trap, you vile girl! You infidel's whore!"

And then he heard screaming.

Kashif tried to force open the door, but the shaft of a spear struck him in the face. As he recoiled from the blow, the soldiers leaped upon him, laughing.

"Behold your deeds, Saracen," mocked one of them in his ear.

Kashif was overcome by instinct, the warrior instinct built up in him by years of harsh training as a soldier, prepared to deal with any situation he might face. He brought his elbows and knees together, his body looking like a turtle walking upon the earth, forming a strong base aligned to the floor. Then he burst upward, standing upright, his eyes burning wild in a frenzy, like the kind he experienced when he chanted the _hadara _in the wars.

He did not even draw his own sword, he pulled the straight edged blade of his nearest opponent. He did not remember nor think of any specific gambit or technique. He just saw red. Blood-red, the color forbidden for Muslims to wear, all but for the battlefield.

When he came to his senses again, three decapitated bodies lay bleeding the floor. He had cut right through their leather armor. Ya Allah. Was he Djinn?

_Agnes._

Kashif's attention snapped back to her, and he broke into the room. An ox-like old man sat upon the floor weeping in horror, a crimson dagger lying on the floor next to him. And there she was, sprawled in front of him, all crimson as well.

"Oh Agnes…sweet Agnes," he sobbed. "Please forgive me. Forgive me. Oh, darling..."

"Damn you! You kuffar scum, damn you!" Kashif screamed, lunging at her uncle. "What have you done?!" He nearly choked on his own rage.

His sword arm rose up, there was a glint of steel, and the old man's head rolled upon the floor, blood pooling around his corpse.

Kashif stood there, shaking with fury and shock for several moments, then let his eyes fall on her small body torn to shreds, with nearly a dozen gaping wounds in her belly and chest. Her eyes stared wildly upwards in shock, her breathing creating a horrible whistling noise. He knelt down and touched the side of her face. She twitched, then fixed her eyes on him.

"You…you killed them…my family…" She turned her face away from him, started to cry furious, anguished tears. He wanted to cradle her, but she writhed at his touch. "Don't touch me!" she screamed. "You killed them! You're of the devil, like they told me…"

Then she started to cough on up the blood filling her mouth, overflowing down her face. He couldn't stop himself from holding her now, from murmuring things automatically in his own language to calm her, from stroking her hair, face, neck…

She was too weak, too terrified to fight it, so she just whimpered, trembling in fear and pain.

"Shhh…habibti…" He shut his eyes, fighting the tears.

_It was all his fault, his sin. He had brought this curse down on her, defiled her innocence. She was right. He must be from Shaitan…._

"Forgive me," he choked, and kissed her forehead. "Please…forgive me…"

_Am I begging her? Or begging Allah? _

"Astaghfar," he prayed under his breath.

She winced, adjusting her head on his chest as if to seek some small comfort when her entire body was wracked with pain. "My name…is Agnes," she whispered. "She was pure…and forgave everyone who hurt her…" She twitched. "I-I'm not pure anymore, but…but I can still…be like her…I can forgive…" She wrapped a trembling arm around his back as if trying to comfort him now. "If God lets me into Heaven, I…I'll ask Him…to let you in too…for you're sorry, and…and we could be happy there…maybe I could even kiss you there, and it wouldn't be a sin…"

Now he broke down sobbing, holding her closer still.

"My cousins would be there," she whispered, "and my aunt and uncle…he wouldn't be mad anymore...he stopped being mad when he was done with me... He was...sorry too. Like you are. My parents…I'll see them too. I'd hug them and kiss them and tell them how much I missed them…" Blood started coming out of her mouth again in a flow, and she struggled.

He started to chant something in a deep voice, something in his language, to comfort himself as much as to comfort her. It was from the Holy Quran, memorized in his youth:

_All praise be to Allah who has given us life after He caused us to die…and unto Him is the Resurrection…_

"That's pretty," she remarked, her voice so faint he had to bend his ear close to her mouth to hear. "You kept your promise. You showed me one of your songs…" It was the last thing she ever said. After that, it was just the feeling of her breath falling in and out, growing weaker and weaker, and the blood gurgling in her throat as the last gasps were wrenched from her.

She grasped his hand, squeezing it as tight as her weakening body would allow.

"Go to sleep," he begged her as she died. "Sleep…just sleep…"

And when her chest finally stopped moving, he buried his face in her golden hair, and recited brokenly, "Wa Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji-oon".

_To Allah we belong and to Him we return…_

"Thank you, bin Suleiman," came a voice from the doorway. "You really did me a favour."

Tindal entered through the doorway, behind him were his band of cutthroats. Kashif recognized everyone of them. They were his favorites, his best.

He had beat them all in practice, even several at a time, but never all at once like this.

_Today I am going to die. Perhaps if I die now, slaying this vile man, Allah will count me as a martyr, and forgive me for all I have done in this house._

Kashif picked up the sword, and charged at them, screaming. He remembered his blade cutting, blood spraying upon his face, then men jumping upon him. Something struck him in the back of the head and everything went black.

Kashif returned to consciousness with a splitting headache, his arms and legs bound by steel chain. Tindal stood across from him tapping his foot impatiently.

The Saracen struggled to stand up but the chains held him down.

"Filthy Shaitan," he growled. "You were a fool to spare my life! Do you think I could ever forget? I will live to make you pay! So if you've any sense, either kill me, or cut my arms and legs off and render me useless for my crimes!"

"Bin Suleiman, I am a logical man, not a wasteful one," Tindal exhaled. "If you were to die, I'd be at a terrible loss. Think about it. Thanks to your services, I am able to take this castle and it's titles with clean hands. You, my friend, are more useful to me than my whole band put together. And will continue your usefulness in the years to come…"

"I will never fight for you again! Never!"

"Oh, but you will. You have something to search for. Your immediate family may or may not have been slaughtered, but the chance that they live still haunts you. You can't possibly turn away from that chance. Besides, you Arabs are rather like rats in your breeding methods, and I have no doubt your noble father produced quite a litter. Surely at least a few might be willing to embrace their brother, who was dead but now is alive again. Would that not be pleasant for you, to have such a fond reunion?" He smiled smugly. "So calm yourself. Hate me as much as you want, but remember that I can be good to those who serve me well."

"You are a devil."

"Yet even the devil must honour his own demons. They would not serve him so loyally if he was not at least somewhat loyal to them. So keep up the good work, and you get more privileges than any other pious Christian master would give his heathen dog. Win my trust, and perhaps you may one day win your freedom." Tindel walked away slowly. "I am proud of you, Cobra. Killing three of my men, wounding another, all for the sake of a dead little girl. Such a noble savage you were today..."

Kashif sat silently in his chains. Defeated.

He was defeated by his own sense of duty, hammered into him since his birth. From his parents. From the Islamic scholars and the Ulema he sat with. From his beloved Sultan.

He had to live because he had responsibility. Tindel had bound him by his own heart.

_Oh Allah. Please grant me vengeance. I know the Ulema would say such a prayer would curse me, that it would be ugly to Your ears. But please, Allah..Grant me vengeance. Against Tindal. Against myself._

He lay in the bed where they had slept together, where he had held her in his arms, and cried himself to sleep. But sleep brought him no peace.

He kept seeing her lying lifeless, bathed in blood, like a little slaughtered lamb at Eid, like her martyred patroness saint.

He awoke every little while, only to sob more, until his beard and the pillow was drenched in his tears and his whole body felt drained of strength..

And he never felt so utterly alone as he did on that cruel, silent night.


End file.
